


Riff

by orphan_account



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: 1996, Angst, F/M, UST, trailer fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Headcanon of what may have happened between Gillian Anderson & David Duchovny in 1996 ahead of the Golden Globes period in 1997. Angsty trailer fic, inspired by  the song Maggot Brain by Funkadelic (which was apparently a regular visitor to Gs stero). Pure fiction, as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riff

_**Summer - 1996**_  
The first time I heard that guitar riff come roaring through the thin walls of my trailer I was irritated. Actually that’s an understatement. I was livid. It wasn't even 10am, I had a late call for once and the screaming overdrive had cost me 40 minutes of sleep. I pulled on boxers and a shirt and stormed out , cataloguing and arming all my bottled up tension to throw at her, to make her understand just how stupid and selfish she was being. It was the climax of weeks of tension between Gillian and I and I was spoiling for a fight. Our common ground was gone and we couldn't get through the gaps between scenes without rubbing each other the wrong way, a cruel reminder of those giddy early days where we couldn't get through five minutes of idleness without rubbing each other in all the right ways, reckless and alive.

But that morning I wasn't letting my mind go there, I wasn't interested in the cause of the problem but its’ effects. Clyde was off the show and though I felt like his shadow cast a pall from afar, draining some of the energy that made Gillian so effervescent and watchable it wasn't my business. What was my business was my life and career and I was not about to lay back and let my co-star and her loud fucking music disturb my sleep and ruin my personal time as well as my work time. I’d dealt with her being tired on set, I could deal with her needing time for mom stuff, marriage stuff, personal stuff, I wasn't a total jackass. Hell, I even liked having Piper toddling around from time to time; the kid was adorable but Gillian’s life was her own and she’d made that fact pretty damn clear to when we’d gone back to work in January ‘94, her with a shiny new ring and me with a hole the size of her in my gut. I’d rolled with the punch, found a brave face, swallowed the bitter pill. I think I’d worked through every cliché in the book as I tried to come to terms with the loss of a half-thought-through future without losing the show. In the end though I hadn't had much choice, it seemed her marriage had made her forget not only that we were friends, and some days more, but also that I was a human; we’d gone from sharing almost everything to being strangers who put it on for the camera and buried their history.

Right in that moment though none of that applied and it was just her and me and the damn music. I couldn't force Gillian to enjoy our time together but I wasn't about to start letting her ruin my alone time too.

The asphalt between our trailers was damp and gritty on my bare feet and I cursed aloud as I winced my way to her door, discomfort slowing my pace from a furious march to a crawl. If I hadn't slowed down I might not have heard it. The out of place noise in the beat between two ear-splitting slides.

I stopped and waited for the next gap.

And it was there again, unmistakeably the tone I would always recognise as hers. Creeping forward I pressed my ear to the door, straining to hear and as the screaming guitar faded to static I realised that she was crying. Not just soft tears but gut-wrenching sobs, the kind of tears that come when everything else has crumbled and you have no strength left. The kind of crying that leaves you drained. I had never heard her cry like that. Not even in the early days where every scene was a battle and she thought she was going to get fired. I'm not sure how long I stood there until a rustling from inside left me frozen and afraid of being discovered intruding on this intimate moment. But then the track restarted and the sobbing and the rustling were swallowed by the sympathetic howl of the music. Even as a part of me wanted to tear into the room and comfort her I knew that I wouldn't be welcome. That whatever grief she was pouring out was not for anyone else to see. I returned to my trailer quietly, my anger dissolved.

From that day forward whenever I heard that song from her trailer I would send a silent wave of good wishes through the wall to her, a helpless prayer that things would fall back together. I don’t think it worked though, as the series crawled through the summer months there were few days when I didn't hear those guitars.

* * *

 

**_Autumn 1996_ **

I get back to my trailer earlier than I expect, stripping off Mulder’s tie as I approach and heading straight into the shower. That’s where I am when I hear Gillian’s door slam and the shouting start. I try to let the water fill my ears so that I won’t hear the bitter accusations and the desperation in both voices. I catch words, fighting words, cruel words, final sounding words but I don’t let myself string them together. Not even when I hear my name. I miss the anonymity of the guitars and so I don’t step out of the shower until it’s over. Or at least I think it’s over, The voices have dropped to a low hum and I pull on sweat pants and a t-shirt and start to towel my hair off when a commotion breaks out, a bitter cry breaking through the quiet.

‘GET OUT YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE’. Her tone is nothing I've ever heard from her before and it chills me. I'm done with playing the passive whatever I am and even as her door slams, footsteps storming away while the familiar riff starts up, I’m out of the bathroom and on my way. Tugging her door open and taking the steps in one long stride I find her half-dressed in Scully’s clothes, suit pants and an unbuttoned shirt, eyes ablaze with anger and wet with unshed tears as she spins to face me.

'I told you to get ou- Oh!’ and her face cycles through an array of emotions as she realises I’m not who she thought I was and she tries to remember what front she is meant to present to me. But I’m not interested in that, crossing to her and grasping her shoulders softly, eyes demanding an explanation even as she flinches slightly and drops her gaze from mine.

'David you shouldn’t be in here.’ is all she gives me. It’s not enough. She sounds so defeated now that the shooting star of her anger has crashed back to earth.

'What the hell was that Gill? What did he do? What did he say? Do you want me to kick his ass?’ and despite the air crackling with tension she starts to laugh. It’s small and choked to begin but as the guitars soar around us it becomes more hysterical,  the wild, reckless laugh that would follow moments on set where we completely, irrevocably lost the plot and which generally ended with the whole crew laughing along with her. But this time I can’t laugh, I can’t understand her laughter and so I can’t give into it. Instead I just hold onto her, chastely at an arms length, and let her laugh resisting the urge to gather her in close, to trap her in a cocoon just big enough for the two of us and shut out whatever has just happened.

When she quiets enough to straighten back up and look at me I see a clarity and openness in her face that I haven’t seen in months. Years maybe.

  
'He deserves for you to kick his ass,’ is her first comment, 'but that would only make him think he was right about all the shit he said. Which you probably overheard anyway.’ I shake my head.

'No, I didn’t actually. I was in the shower and stayed there till it was over, I didn’t want to intrude. It’s none of my business what you and Clyde have to say to each other.’ And at this she laughs again, the short burst of bitter energy that coupled with her next statement tells me everything I need to know.

'If only he believed that.’ Reading Gillian’s face is a talent that has brought me more heartache than happiness of late as I’ve been subjected to the cold mask of indifference but now I see twin roses of embarassment in her cheeks, bright anger in her eyes and the hard set of her jaw that I know follows injustice or unfairness.

'He thinks we’re fucking?’ is the only conclusion and she nods, briskly and turns away, her voice taking on the same even tone that Scully uses to tell Mulder things he won’t like.

'Things have been… tricky lately. And so I’ve been spending some nghts here just to get some sleep. He turned up this morning in a boiling rage and started throwing accusations. I gave as good as I got and things got ugly fast. I don’t know if I can fix it. It’s like we don’t even speak the same language any more.’  
'Do you want to?’ The words slip off my tongue before I can bite them back and I see her stiffen. Giving me a speech is one thing but turning it into a dialogue when the connotations are so personal is something we haven’t come close to since her marriage. But I have to know. 'Do you want to fix things Gillian?’

'Yes!’ and she spins to me, eyes blazing. 'I want to fix everything! I want my life back and my friendships back and I want to feel the certainty that I felt when Clyde slipped that ring on my finger. I want him to vibrate when I touch him at night instead of rolling away. I want to want to touch him rather than feeling like I should. I want my daughter to be able to sleep through the night without getting woken up by fighting. I want to come to work excited for the day, for you and I to laugh between takes and to make the show without having to do this stupid dance around each other. I want to sleep without waking up terrified I’m fucking everything up. I want to look in the mirror and recognise the person I see. I want - I want. to. fix. everything.’

For a second the force of her words lights her from within and her determination fills the room but just as quickly it collapses in, a black hole of impossibilities as she admits the truth that no amount of rhetoric or will can change. 'But I think it’s too late.’

She steps backwards on seasick legs and collapses on the couch, tiny frame folding in on itself for strength and she battles to maintain eye contact and steady her breathing. The pause lengthens and I finally venture words,

'Too late for what? Because I will do whatever I can to make things better for you here. I had no idea things were so bad or that you cared so much.’  
A half smile quirks one of her lips, 'You weren’t supposed to. I knew when I married Clyde that I had to cut you off, that I couldn’t be the me I was with you and the wife he deserved. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that but it was better just to freeze you out.’

'Better?’ I should probably be angry but as the pieces of the puzzle come in to focus I only have more questions that need answering and I don’t want to fight with her. 'Better for me? Or for you?’

Gillian shrugs.

'Better for everyone. The wedding was reckless, me grasping at what seemed like the safer option in the moment and thinking that a windbreak would stop me feeling the hurricane that was whatever we were doing to each other at the time. It didn’t. I don’t know how long my wedding ring could have kept me out of your bed if it hadn’t been for Piper. She changed everything. She needed me to create a safe space for her and I was never safe with you. And I couldn’t tell you that. You would have talked me around, made me believe whatever I needed to to melt back into you until I couldn’t see myself any more. And so I built a wall instead and put you behind it, put everything behind it that wasn’t professional and stable and responsible and prayed that it would be enough.’

'Oh Gillian.’ The words escape me on a sigh as I realise everything she has been trying to do, the reason behind the guitar-buried tears. That while I have been doing my own thing and hating her for shutting me out she has been trying to do the right thing and shutting everything out, even the parts of herself that don’t fit the life she’s found herself in. And that it still hasn’t been enough. My feet, unbidden, carry me to her and I wrap one arm around her shoulders and up into her hair. As I stroke the soft auburn curls I feel the tension drain from her body followed immediately by tears. There’s something luxurious in her sobbing, some release and confession that I didn’t hear when the guitars went quiet. Before it had been an angry lonely outlet but I felt as if by letting me in she was finally letting go. I just wasn’t sure of what.

When her sobs subside she lies in my lap, face turned away and hair obscuring all but the tip of her nose and her chin from my view. Her voice is steady when she finally speaks again.

'Maybe it’s not too late for all of it.’

I lean forward to try and read what she is saying in her face but she rolls her face away and I can feel the faintest brush of her eyelashes through the fabric of my sweatpants. I try not to pay attention to the sensation, shooting for neutrality even as I allow my hand out of my lap to smooth a stray strand of red behind her ear.

'Not too late for who? Clyde?’ I try to keep my selfishness out of my question and she shakes her head imperceptibly.

'No I think it’s definitely too late for that. You really didn’t hear what he said?’ Gillian pauses, waiting until I murmur the statement’s truth before she continues. 'He said that if I don’t stop sleeping with you then he wants a divorce! I told him I had never started so that might be tricky and when he dodn’t believe me I tried to seduce him to prove my point. He wouldn’t even touch me and then he had the audacity to imply that you only wanted me because I was somebody elses.’

'That fucking asshole said what?!’ It’s only the weight of her and her pain in my lap that stops me sprinting out of the trailer and beating the crap out of my former friend and colleague. Gillian squirms uncomfortably, the hunch of her shoulders telling me how much his accusations have hurt her.

'I think his exact words were “Duchovny always did have a thing for stealing another man’s pussy”. That was when I told him to get the fuck out.’

This time I can’t contain the wash of anger I feel both at his mostly unfair character assassination of me but much more the idea that he, or any other man, could possess something as precious as the woman in my lap and that I would need any sort of reason to want her. I growl as I rise to give chase, grasping Gillian’s shoulders to free myself but instead of letting me move her she pushes me back, somehow spinning so she is now sat on my lap, her slight frame preventing my planned revenge.

'I don’t want you to make him think he’s right.’ is her simple explanation, palms flat and calming on my chest against the angry staccato of my breathing. 'One day when he’s got his head out of his ass he’ll realise what a fucking idiot he’s been and if you beat him senseless I wont ever get the satisfaction of that day.’ There’s a dark twinkle in her eyes and I know that she has won this battle without even trying, that right now my rage is less important than her feeling some sort of power over her life. I can give her that if nothing else.

Seconds pass and I become gradually aware of the warm weight of her in my lap, the press of her hands on my body and the intensity of her gaze locked to mine. My mouth goes dry as I try to tear my eyes away, looking anywhere else but finding only the greater danger of the quickening rise and fall of her breasts in her half buttoned shirt, the pulse in the sweet spot beneath her ear and the way her leg is pressed against mine, knee-to-knee with her tiny foot catching half by accident in the bottom of my trouser leg. When I feel her toes on my ankle bone I lose the fight and my eyes lock back with hers, to where the dark humour has given way to something I know all too well.

'Gillian…’ my words are intended as a low warning but as the tip of her tongue sweeps just barely over her bottom lip it becomes a compliment and my mind shows me showreel of all the things I know that mouth can do. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, willing my groin not to react to the wolf grey in her blue gaze or the memories assaulting  my good intentions. But when I look back at her I realise there is no escape unless she lets me go. She has finally let me back in  and I wont be able to leave until she makes me.

'Clyde was wrong, wasn’t he?’ Despite her inflection there is no question in her words, no hesitation in her hands which begin a slow sweep up my chest and down my arms, blood rushing after each movement as everything in my body cries out for more of her touch. I nod, not trusting my voice, not wanting to do anything to discourage what is happening but also knowing that she has to be the one to choose this. Her stare rakes over me, noting the hairs on my arms standing to attention, the puddled black need of my pupils and finally settling on the unmistakeable bulge in my sweatpants. I think I stop breathing as the corner of her mouth curls in a knowing smile only to be dragged back into reality as she peels herself off me and walks away.

I’m still frozen in place, face screwed up and gathering my strength to purge the promise of her from my expectation when I hear the lock click, its’ metallic gasp sealing us in together and pushing  the rest of the world away. This was always our kingdom. A place where two opposite and equal forces could grapple and give and take without language or nicety or anything we weren’t born with. Our connection was something primal and dangerous, poisonous to normalcy and I understood why she had run from it, its’ intensity left no room for breathing, stabiity or romantic dinners and maybe-one-day children. It burned and it broke, she was fire and I was air. I’ve never forgotten and now she once again closes the distance between safety and devastation; burning off the oxygen in the room with every blouse button that her small fingers break free.

I meet her in the dead zone between door and bedroom, every particle of my being begging me to close those last few inches but I force myself to hold, arms at my sides and face open. There’s something feline in the way she hold herself, a cat watching its’ prey, frozen in thrall, drawing out the agonizing seconds before it strikes. And when she does it’s the most exquisite pain, like blood flowing back into a limb that’s been numb for hours, hot needles of want starting at the point where her lips graze my throat and scraping outwards as I pull her in.

My body remembers instantly how she fits against me, thighs flush to my legs as she draws herself up on tiptoe to deepen the kiss, small hands fisted at my back, her breasts against my ribs, my cock pressing into her stomach. It’s as if we shatter in reverse, all the pieces flying back to exactly where they should be, her tongue in my mouth, my hands in her hair and then on her ass, lifting her into me so her legs can wrap around and complete the circuit.

And then it explodes again, Gillian forcing her hand between us and under my shirt, ripping it from me in a tangle as I try and push her blouse down her arms. It’s a symphony of severed buttons clicking to the ground, heavy breathing and when she finally moans my name my senses flash a memory of the last time she made that noise for me and it’s so vivid I can almost taste her. We crash into the bed more by accident than any sort of planning and I use the new angle to my advantage, tugging aside the cups of her bra to reintroduce myself to her nipples which are pebble hard and as rosy as I remember.

Gillian cries out when I bite her, our relationship has always been a play-off between pleasure and pain and that carried into the bedroom. At first I delight in the volume of her desire but as she chants ‘David, fuck! David!’ I remember that her husband is out there somewhere and that we are not supposed to be doing this. Unwilling to sacrifice the promised land of her cleavage I instead clasp one hand over her mouth and am forced to muffle my own groan when she responds by snaking her tongue out and drawing my middle finger into her mouth. I’m instantly reminded of why we spent so much time locked in bathrooms when we first met, of the impossibility of controlling this if we keep going.

And so I stop. I fight every nerve ending in my body that is reaching out towards the woman underneath me, to the soft sweetness of her body offered to me again after so long. Inhaling deeply I roll away and try to measure my breathing, eyes closed against temptation. In the darkness I seek her hands with mine, collecting one from my hair and another from dangerously close to my groin, twining our fingers together and bringing them between us as I finally look back at her. Though there’s hurt and disappointment in her cooling gaze the barely dry tear tracks on her face tell me that I have made the right decision. That desperation should not be the vehicle to bring her back to me and I wonder how to tell her so.

She starts to tell me that it looks like Clyde was right, to push me away with bitterness but I hush her with a soft kiss and the press of my forehead to hers.

‘He was so very very wrong,’ is all I can tell her and as I pull her in close I hope that my actions speak louder than the words I can’t find. That she can tell from how I’m holding her that she always has a place beside me, that I would move my world to help her find a place in hers. That I will take whatever she wants to give me as long as I’m sure that she wont regret offering it. That there are still goosebumps on my skin where her chest is flush to mine, that my body always wants hers and that I would’ve fucked her into tomorrow if she hadn’t just told me she didn’t want to make the lies the truth. 

We lie there, silent except for the guitars until finally her breathing calms. She’s soft in my arms and I hope she’s sleeping though I don’t dare move to look. There’s twenty minutes until call and I wonder if when it’s over everything will be different; if the past hour will be added to the heap of things she holds back from me behind her defences or if maybe, finally she will let me in. Perhaps this time we could control the blaze and consume each other without losing ourselves. 

Across the room the stereo delivers the final whispers of the track and then, as if realising it is no longer needed, crackles and is silent.


End file.
